Bedtime Stories
by ScroogeMcDuck
Summary: “Could us ‘ave a bedtime story?” the boy inquired. “Please?”- A short oneshot with what, I hope, is an interesting twist. Please R&R!


Bedtime Stories

**A/N:** I'm not sure whether this constitutes as a drabble or a ficlet or what…but the idea just popped into my head and since I had little else to do except practice for Monday's rehearsal I decided to write this. XD Here's hoping you enjoy it!

--

The only phrase to describe the loft at this late hour would be pandemonium. The room was filled to the breaking point with shouts, laughs, curses and even the occasional snatch of gin-induced song. The boys were grouped round tables, playing cards, examining the days wares, smoking their pipes…a couple of the younger ones were playing tag, scurrying about the place like a couple of rats, giggling and shrieking fit to burst.

Needless to say, attempting to get one's work done was impossible. Fagin sat in the midst of this insanity, seemingly immune, glasses perched precariously on his nose as he attempted to tot up his figures. Mathematics was quite difficult, even for him as a fence, at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't one of them. Despite this the old man persevered…until, at last, he'd had enough.

Throwing down his quill in exasperation he let out what could only be described as an infuriated shriek, clearly indicating to the boys that they should be quieter or so help them there would be fierce reprimands to follow. This scolding being dealt he returned to his sums; the boys returned to their previous activities in a more subdued manner than was usual with them.

After a few minutes of this relative peace and quiet, Fagin dared to crack a smile as he continued work. Bill had done very well for himself on his last job, very well indeed…of course, that didn't mean to say the pay would be just as well…

"Mister Fagin?"

Fagin looked down at the lad tugging at the hem of his coat, about to retort angrily at being interrupted. But the boy's wide-eyed, innocent expression un-nerved him somewhat, so instead he offered; "Yes, my dear?"

"Could us 'ave a bedtime story?" the boy inquired. "Please?"

His plea was soon taken up by the rest of the younger boys and Fagin would have thought it cruel not to accept; those puppy dog eyes of theirs got him every time.

"Oh all right then," he said, after a moment or two's pretence of thought. "I'll tell yer a story."

It was the work of a few moments for the boys to huddle round Fagin's chair, swathed and huddled in their blankets, eyes fixed expectantly on the old man as they waited for him to begin. Fagin couldn't help but smile a little at their eager faces; why, even Dodger had abandoned his adult genteel pretences and was looking his way!

"Which one would you like to hear tonight then, my dears? The adventures of Lionel, Duke of Derbyshire?"

"Didn't 'e get thrown in the clink las' time you tol' tha' story?"

"'E escaped afterwards, weren't you listenin'?"

"Well…Lionel's all right for now then," Fagin interrupted. "How about…The Magistrate and The Murderer?" Fagin had a habit of giving his stories titles, if only in an attempt to make them sound grander than mere late evening entertainment.

"Nah, we 'eard tha' one las' week. The murderer murdered the magistrate didn't 'e?"

Fagin sighed. If Charley kept giving away the punch lines there'd be a punch headed his way soon.

"How about The Terrible Traps and The Prime Plant?"

"Didn't the traps end up-"

"Charley!"

Surprisingly, it was Dodger and not Fagin who offered this reprimand. The top-hatted young fellow, having delivered this scolding, turning his attention back to his benefactor.

"Why don't you tell us somethin' different Fagin? Somethin' we ain't 'eard before?"

A murmur of assent across the board. Fagin nodded, accepting the wisdom of Dodger's decision and paused a moment or two to think. Then, the idea struck him, and he began.

"Quite a few years ago now there lived a young lad, quite like yourselves. He was from a poor family and although his father worked hard to provide for the family, there was little in the bank, very little in fact. The situation grew so dire that the boy's father had to borrow cash from moneylenders to pay for his food and his home. But soon debt began pilin' up against him."

"Why didn't the kid's mother work too?" piped up one of the boys. "'Elp bring in money?"

"No-one would employ her," said Fagin, with a sad shake of his head. "She wasn't all there at times…no-one wanted a worker like that." He paused before continuing. "The debt, as I say, began piling up against the father and soon he resorted to stealing as a way to get money…"

"Tha's more like it!" exclaimed one of the boys, who was promptly hushed by the others. Fagin didn't smirk as he might usually have done at such an exclamation but merely waiting for the shushing to die down before continuing.

"However, he wasn't as brilliant a pickpocket as you lot, my dears. He got himself into trouble one time too many and soon found himself in the clink…facing the drop."

Fagin paused to heave a small sigh and not one of the boys made a comment. This story was so unlike Fagin's usual tales; there were no lords and ladies, no beaks, no traps, no daring heroes, no bold escapes or marvelous riches waiting to be discovered…just a poor family with its head facing the noose.

"The boy and his mother found themselves in the workhouse, but the boy was soon taken on as an apprentice at a blacking factory, sticking the labels on bottles as it were. It was dull and tedious work but he kept at it, if only to get a few coins in his pocket at the end of the day. While he was working in the factory he made a very good friend by name of Charley…Charley Dickens. Now Charley was a bright lad, earning money to help his father who was in debtors' prison. He told our lad that he wanted to become a writer, a journalist, and share his ideas with the world."

"Do writers earn a lot of cash then?" asked Charley, feeling very smug that the hero's good friend bore his name.

"As a matter of fact, my dear, they generally don't. But, as I say, Dickens was a bright lad, and he was certain to be a great man…perhaps the greatest man of all time."

A chorus of laughter from the boys.

"Despite his friendship with Charley and his steady, if not incredibly boring, job, our young lad wanted to do more with his life than stick labels on bottles for a living. His father was dead and his mother was an inmate of the workhouse…there was little he could do to help her now he'd been freed from the system himself. He'd heard Charley speak many times about London, the great metropolis, a place where, if you had determination and intelligence enough, you could make your fortune and find your way in life. And so, with that thought in mind, the boy…well…young man, by this time…made his way to London and ran away from the hated factory."

"Good on 'im!" chorused a few of the boys.

Fagin chuckled.

"You could say that, my dears, you could say that. As it turned out, on his arrival in London, our hero soon found his way and found himself his place in society. He made a living as we do now, picking a pocket or two to get some cash. This soon made him a very wealthy man and so he set up his own little business in a similar field and he had a very good time of it, and still does to this day."

"The moral of the story?" cried Charley, with an authoritative air. "Crime pays!"

The boys burst into laughter again and applauded Fagin for his tale. One by one they trooped off to bed, chattering drowsily amongst themselves and speculating about who this great man 'Charley Dickens' was.

Soon it was just Fagin and Dodger left. The old man had tidied away his account book and was simply staring into space, seemingly lost in thought. Dodger approached him and sat down in the chair opposite, looking curiously at Fagin as his companion contemplated.

"Tha' wos a good story Fagin," Dodger said, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" said Fagin. "Oh, well, thank you very much, my dear. Not bad for a few moment's thinking on the spot if I do say so myself."

"It was very different to the stories you usually tell us," said Dodger thoughtfully. "It felt…I dunno…more real."

"That's because," said Fagin, with a small smile. "It was real. It wasn't a story. What a sharp lad you are, my dear!"

"Who wos the boy?" asked Dodger excitedly. "Who met Charley Dickens then came to London to make 'is fortune? Who wos 'e?"

Fagin sighed, then smiled and simply replied;

"Me."

--

**A/N: **Here's hoping you liked that, my dears! Dickens did make a friend when he worked in the blacking factory by name of Bob Fagin; he was, many believe, the namesake of the pickpocket leader we all know and love. I tweaked space and time a little to come up with this. XD

I may write an actual proper back-story for Fagin at some point, since I'm playing him and all not to mention it would be fun, but that's only when I've finished the story of Sykes (which has a few chapters left, I assure you!)

How would Dickens feel if he realized he'd met one of his characters? What if he actually met all of his characters? What would happen?

Mayhap that's another story for another time. ^^

Please R&R!


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